Here We Are, Shut Out of Paradise
by chalantness
Summary: She'd be more impressed by the fact that he hasn't left any kind of virtual footprint anywhere if it wasn't making it so damn hard to find him.


**Title:** _Here We Are, Shut Out of Paradise  
_ **Rating:** PG-13  
 **Word Count:** ~5800  
 **Characters:** Steve/Natasha  
 **Summary:** She'd be more impressed by the fact that he hasn't left any kind of virtual footprint _anywhere_ if it wasn't making it so damn hard to find him.

 **A/N:** When a year goes by and you realize you never wrote a post- _Civil War_ fic like you'd planned.

 **Here We Are, Shut Out of Paradise**

She doesn't know what to expect when she gets into her car, doesn't even know where she's going. Not until she's standing on the porch with her hand hovering over the door and the only coherent, concrete thing she can wrap her mind around is, _fuck, what if I wake the kids?_

Laura opens before she gets the chance to knock, and Natasha's stomach does an uneasy flip when she sees a flicker of disappointment in the woman's eyes. Natasha knows that she isn't the first person Laura had expected (or _hoped_ ) to be on the other side. Still, her worried expression smooths quickly into relief, and she tugs Natasha over the threshold and into a hug before Natasha can so much as blink. There's something about the way the woman strokes a hand over her hair, the way she squeezes just a little too tightly, that unravels the last slivers of her control. Something that has been slowly but surely tearing at the seams ever since Ross had showed up at their door and slapped the damn Accords onto their table.

"I'm sorry," is all that Natasha can manage, and Laura shushes her gently before she can say anything else. _If_ she could say anything else. She wouldn't know where to start.

 _I'm sorry I couldn't bring Clint home. I'm sorry we fought to begin with. I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry_.

Natasha swallows, hard, and the ghosts of a wry smile tug on Laura's lips. "I think this conversation needs alcohol."

Natasha almost laughs. _Almost_.

She tucks her legs under her as they sit on the couch, and Laura pours her tequila in the wine glasses that Natasha had gifted to her and Clint for one of their anniversaries. Laura has gone through two in just fifteen minutes, and Natasha has barely touched hers, and it should be funny because it's usually the other way around.

Laura looks relieved when Natasha tells her that she has a pretty good idea of where Clint may be. If she knows Ross then there's only one place he'd keep them locked up. And she knows Ross. The man may have gone through some epitome of character or whatever the hell he'd told them before, but he's still _predictable_. It's why she'd known that nothing good could come of seeing that man at the door. She hates Tony for bringing him, except that's not entirely true, because she can't hate Tony. Nor does she want to. Not anymore, at least.

She's still pissed at him, though. That's not going to go away anytime soon.

"I can't… I'm not saying—" Natasha cuts herself off, takes another sip. She knows what to say, she just doesn't _want to_ say it. She does, anyway. "I can't get them out of there."

Laura just looks at her. Doesn't even _blink_. "Yes you can," she says, but Natasha knows what she really means: _Yes you will_.

"Not on my own. That place is a fortress, Laura, and there are so many eyes on it. I can't—" She shakes her head. "I'm not exactly an innocent party, either."

"Neither is a certain super soldier." There's something almost nonchalant about her tone and it vaguely reminds her of Nick. He'd know what to do. He would've gotten them out of there by now. "You both have experience with this kind of thing. If anyone can make it happen, it's you two."

Natasha feels something tug at her chest. "We're not exactly on speaking terms," she says, even though something flickers into her mind – a quick flash of rubble and smoke and the brightest blue eyes she's ever seen, staring back at her, shining in relief and gratitude and… and— "And I've already tried looking for him. He's dropped completely off the grid."

"You'll find him," Laura replies, her tone leaving no room for argument. She's not going to drop this, and Natasha owes her at least this much. She owes Clint and Steve and the others at least this much.

Laura offers for Natasha to stay the night, even though they both know she was never planning to. She wants to be gone before the kids have a chance to wake up and see her or the car outside. (If Clint doesn't get to see the kids then neither does she.) But she does stay long enough for Laura to pack her a bag and load a Tupperware of leftovers for her to take on the road. Laura squeezes her in another hug on the porch with Clint's borrowed duffel between their feet, pulls back and says softly, "You know I don't blame you for any of this, right?"

Natasha wants to say yes. She gives her another hug instead.

... ...

The thing is, Natasha has _run out_ of places to look for Steve. She'd already exhausted everything she could think of before seeing Laura, and she'd be more impressed by the fact that he hasn't left any kind of virtual footprint _anywhere_ if it wasn't making it so damn hard to find him. Which is the point, she knows. Part of her thinks that maybe he could also be hiding from _her_ specifically and she hates that the thought hurts as much as it does, even if he has every reason to not want to see her right now. She wouldn't blame him. She doesn't at all.

But, she's on the border of Iowa and Illinois, tucked away in one of the safe houses that Nick has commandeered (she _knows_ there are more; she's found four of them on her own) when a voice from the TV catches her attention. She looks up from her laptop and, sure enough, there he is, center stage. T'challa.

The story being covered is about his father's funeral. She'd seen it in all the papers and across every laptop screen in the coffeehouse she'd ducked into to lose a tail: a simple and incredibly exclusive ceremony, but a grand and incredibly public reception. Politicians and diplomats across the world had paid their respects, and one of those soundbites is playing now as the screen cuts to a clip of T'challa standing in front the crowd that had gathered outside the hall. His expression is solemn and rightfully so, but also – completely at peace.

She doesn't know why she gets the feeling that she does, seeing that look on his face. Rationally, there is nothing that could tie him back to Steve.

But she has a hunch. (Or maybe she has _hope_.)

... ...

"They all look like they want to drag me back onto that plane in cuffs."

T'challa looks amused, takes her hand in his and kisses the back of her knuckles. The gesture vaguely feels like he could be mocking her, and it does nothing to ease the stares of his guards. But T'challa is still smiling at her, his expression almost serene, and, alright, it does a little to calm the nerves she'd been ignoring the entire flight here. But not nearly as much as the words, "No extradition," that are whispered into her ear as he tucks her hand into the bend of his elbow. She glances at him. He stares straight ahead. "And also, I am the king."

She presses her lips together, and he tilts his head toward her, one eyebrows quirked. Oh, this man is charming. And he knows it.

He leads her into a wide, open room, with tall windows overlooking an expanse of the city. Or, perhaps she ought to call it a kingdom, considering she's standing in the middle of a palace. The sleek buildings should look odd against the backdrop of the African jungle, but somehow, it looks organic. Almost enchanting. _A paradise_ , she thinks wryly.

"As beautiful as our city is," T'challa says after a moment, and she turns her head to find him looking at her, "I doubt you have come just to see the view."

No, she didn't. She holds his gaze as she pulls her hand from his elbow, and when she says, "Steve Rogers," she swears there's a flicker of _something_ that crosses his expression. She ignores it. "You went after him after I let him go at the airport." It's not an accusation and he doesn't take it as one, nor does he try to correct her. Considering she'd betrayed him and is now asking for a favor, she ought to approach this more delicately. But she doesn't have the time and she thinks he's not going to take it the wrong way, anyway. "You're the last person I know to have seen him, and I'm looking for him. What I need him to help me with involves breaking the law," she adds, because that's probably something he should know.

"I'm certain your Steve wouldn't mind that very much, if you're thinking of what I believe you are."

 _Your Steve_.

She could only be so lucky.

"But, what will you do if he decides he isn't willing to help you?" T'challa asks.

"He will," she says, maybe a little too quickly. She's considered him turning her down, of course. But she knows he won't. She knows _him_. "Not for me, but for the others."

Amusement touches T'challa's expression again. "You seem very certain of what he'll think considering you stood against him just weeks before," he tells her, and she can't help the way she cringes. It doesn't feel like he's trying to take a jab at her, but she'd deserve it either way. "But, you seem to know his heart better than you know yours."

She glances away. "He'll put our differences aside if it means freeing our friends. They – mean everything to him."

"As you do to him, and him to you," T'challa says. She presses her lips together, stares out into the city, but she can't get herself to focus on a damn thing. Then his fingertips grasp her chin, bringing her gaze to meet his. He smiles, pulls his hand away. "You don't have to keep punishing yourself for following your head over your heart, Natasha," he tells her. Her eyelashes flutter, her vision blurring ever so slightly at the edges. _Fuck_. Everything about this situation has made her _soft_. "Steve knows that you have been on his side all along."

She knows – she _knows_ – that she should ignore that. He's very obviously saying this to get a reaction, and she shouldn't let herself indulge.

But, she finds that she can't quite help it when she asks, barely above a whisper, "How are you so sure?"

He grins at her, and, vaguely, she registers the sound of the large double-doors behind them being opened when he says, "You can ask him for yourself."

Her heart skips. It actually _skips_ in her chest, and she looks over her shoulder as he walks in. _Steve_. It's stupid, really, that she's practically holding her breath in the second it takes for Steve to spot them – to spot _her_ – across the room. But then his expression shifts into surprise, his eyebrows rising, his lips parting and his bright, blue eyes widening ever so slightly as he takes the sight of her in. Fuck, _fuck_. She feels a tug at her chest, harder and more urgent than when she'd turned up at the Barton Farm and Laura had opened the door to her.

She doesn't run into his arms, and he doesn't run into hers. There aren't any tears (well, her eyes are just a little bit watery) or screams of joy or hurt or _anything_.

It's quiet, the way they come together, her body taking her forward as if on its own. They meet halfway, his hand coming up to touch her arm, just above her elbow, and that's all it takes for her to exhale sharply in something like relief, only so much better. His lips tug at the corners when he hears that little breath, then he's pulling her into his arms, pressing his face into her hair and letting out an exhale of his own against her neck. Her eyelashes flutter closed and she winds her arms around his torso, gripping his shirt between her fingertips.

"Steve," she says, trying to pull away, because her chest is squeezing and her throat feels a little tight. "I'm—"

"Me too," he says quickly, like he can't get the words out fast enough. Like he'd been holding his breath this whole time until he apologize to her. She'd know the feeling. "It's alright," he tells her, and it sounds a little like he's telling himself this, too. "We're here now. So it's alright."

It shouldn't be this easy. It _shouldn't_.

But she lets herself melt a little more into the hug, and wonders how selfish it makes her to believe it, anyway.

... ...

Steve is sitting on her bed when she walks out of the bathroom after her shower. Their dinner is on a tray next to him, a tablet in his lap, his forehead wrinkled in concentration as he studies whatever he's looking at. Blueprints, most likely. They still have a fortress to break into. But he looks up when he hears her, and she doesn't miss the way his eyelashes flutter ever so slightly as his eyes trace over her. Her hair is falling in loose, damp curls over her shoulders, and the robe that someone had brought her to change into doesn't do much to cover the scars along her legs and up her arms, and she knows that she must look as exhausted as she feels after running on little sleep for almost two weeks. Still, the way Steve is staring at her makes her stomach do this stupid little flip. She really shouldn't be thinking the things she is right now, not when there's so much they still need to figure out, but—

Something between them feels different. Not in a bad way, but – _different_.

She smiles a little, crosses the distance between them and settles onto the bed. Steve sort of just grins at her as she picks up a dinner roll and tears off a piece, pops it into her mouth.

"What?" There's a bit of a laugh in her voice, because she's thinking about how many times they've sat together like this, plotting out their plan of attack, sharing quiet conversations in the dark. Her heart squeezes in her chest a little, thinking about how in this moment, it feels as if nothing has changed at all. Even though things couldn't be any different.

"Nothing." His grin widens ever so slightly as he reaches for her, tucks her hair behind her ear. "Just missed you, is all."

Her lips part a little, her gaze holding onto his. There's an apology on the tip of her tongue, and maybe also a tease, because he'll know what she really means. He always does.

But, she thinks he deserves to hear the words himself. She should've said them a long time ago. "I missed you, too," she tells him, voice soft but steady, and there's a flicker of _something_ in his eyes when she leans into his palm. She's itching to draw herself closer, but she's also a little terrified that he'll be able to feel how quickly her heart is beating.

... ...

Breaking them out of an underwater prison is simpler than she'd thought it would be. Not _simple_ , but simpl _er_. She supposes that's the advantage you get when you're friends with a king that has an arsenal of advanced technologies at his fingertips.

Sam pulls her into a hug as soon as she gets his cell unlocked, which doesn't surprise her. He combs his fingers through her hair, brushes a kiss to her temple and tells her that he's glad that she's alive. Clint hugs her, too, which surprises her only a little bit, because she knows the hug isn't just for her. He squeezes onto her a little too tightly, the same way Laura had when she'd come to see her, and Natasha knows the tears on his eyelashes aren't just for her, either. She'd tease him about it, but settles for a grin instead. He rolls his eyes and murmurs, "shut up," as he scrubs a hand over his face. "You have no damn idea how bored I've been," he says. He means something else entirely, and she gives his arm a squeeze.

And it's sort of a punch to her gut when she turns around and sees Steve carrying Wanda out of her cell. He holds her up as Natasha quickly undoes her straight jacket, all but tearing her out of the damn thing, and then the girl doesn't really move right away. Not until Steve says her name, reaches up and touches her hair, then she's crumpling against his chest and letting out this little whimper. She isn't crying, Natasha can tell, but she thinks that's because the girl just doesn't have the energy to, and Natasha feels like she wants to punch a wall.

Scott settles into the seat beside Barnes on the jet as they take off, and Natasha pulls Wanda onto a bench, lays her down and pulls a blanket over her.

When she moves to give her some space, though, Wanda grasps her wrist gently to keep her in place. She looks up at Natasha from under those long eyelashes and Natasha shushes her gently, strokes a hand over her hair. "Get some rest, okay? I'll be right here."

Wanda swallows lightly and nods, letting her eyes flutter closed. It's hard to ignore how young Wanda is, but Natasha has never seen her look this _small_ before, this resigned.

She hates it.

Natasha settles onto the floor beside the bench, and Sam walks over, tucks a blanket around her legs before sitting beside her and leaning back against the wall. Scott and Barnes are talking (well, more Scott than Barnes, but the guy is actually answering his questions with more than a handful of words, so there's that) and so are Steve and Clint. But Natasha isn't paying much attention to either conversation until, a few moments later, she hears Clint ask, "So, what about Tony?" and she can't quite help but look up. Clint's voice had been quiet, but it's as if they'd all been waiting for the moment that this topic would be brought up, because the jet falls silent. A pained expression crosses Steve's face, but when he glances at her, Natasha can't find any animosity in his eyes, any apprehension. Just something solemn and almost bittersweet, akin to regret, and it tugs at her chest as she waits for an answer.

Steve shakes his head, but the gesture doesn't feel quite as definitive as it should be. Natasha knows there's more to the story.

... ...

"Buck wants to be put under."

Natasha blinks, turns to look at Steve as he tilts his head upward, squinting against the light filtering through the canopy of trees above their head. There's nothing quite like the rich, vibrant hues of the jungle in the early evening sunlight. They've already walked this particular path three times, but she doesn't think she'll ever get over the view.

"Steve," she says, voice soft, and he plucks a flower with bright orange petals from its stem and turns to her, tucking it behind her ear. His eyelashes are dotted with tears, and the corner of his lip twitches in a wry sort of grin that makes her stomach do this strange little flip. _God,_ she feels like such an ass for not knowing what to say, especially since she knew that Barnes was going to come to this decision sooner or later, after asking T'challa if they had the means to do so. She reaches up, touches Steve's cheek. "When is it happening?"

"Tomorrow." He lets out a sharp, shallow breath. "He said he'd rather be asleep of his own free will rather than under someone else's. And I get it, I do."

She swipes a tear from the corner of his eye, before it has the chance to fall. He swallows lightly.

"You're still allowed to be upset by it," she tells him, because she thinks that's what he needs to hear. He went through so much to get his best friend back, and so many things fell apart in the process. She can't imagine what he must be feeling right now, to still not have Bucky back after everything.

"Tomorrow, when he—" His voice cracks ever so slightly, and he swallows again, a wrinkle forming between his eyebrows as he holds her gaze. "After it happens, can you – be there?"

She feels her chest squeeze. She _hates_ seeing him like this.

"Yes," she breathes out, cupping her hand over the back of his neck and drawing him close. He winds his arms around her and presses his face into the curve of her neck. The exhale he lets out is shaking and breathy and hot against her skin, and she feels his weight press onto her a little more, as if leaning onto her for support. As if that final thread of his control has been ripped from his fingertips. She closes her eyes, murmurs his name. Her skin wets with his tears when he presses his face into her neck a little more, but she doesn't mind.

(He takes her hand after it happens, threads their fingers and squeezes on just a little too tightly, but she doesn't mind that, either.)

... ...

She doesn't tell them that there's a chance that she can get them back home.

It's incredibly selfish of her, she knows, but she doesn't want to give them false hope. She's not going to put them through that.

The chances are very, very slim, especially since she knows one of their biggest bargaining chips – turning in Bucky Barnes – is off the table. Not that Natasha would've attempted to convince Steve of the idea in the first place, but still. Not only did they defy government orders by refusing to hand him in to begin with, but they'd escaped federal prison and fled the country altogether, and it's— It was hard enough to keep politicians on their side before the Accords. Now there's even more red tape to deal with, and they've more or less pissed off every nation that signed the thing, and Natasha is incredibly limited as to what she can do from here. No one has tied her to the prison break just yet, but they're not stupid. They're not going to think it's a coincidence that she left the country a few weeks before it had taken place. The fact that she'd planned on signing the Accords doesn't mean much anymore.

And technically, she isn't going to be arrested as soon as she flies back home. Nothing is keeping her away, but she can't just leave everyone here, either.

She _can't_.

... ...

"I heard your negotiations came to a standstill."

Natasha feels her heart stop for a second, eyes flicking to T'challa. His expression is more or less as nonchalant as it had been when he'd called her into this office and said that there was someone trying to reach her, but she can tell by the way he's pressed his lips together that he had to have known who was on the other end of this line.

"Really?" he asks. Natasha isn't sure how Tony Stark's voice can make her feel guilty and annoyed and relieved all at once, but it's kind of pissing her off. "The silent treatment?"

"Tony." She genuinely doesn't know what to say. Or rather, where to begin. "If you know where I am, why didn't you come here yourself?"

"Because I'm willing to bet that you aren't there alone. I do watch the news now and then, you know. Well, not that a prison break from a supposedly impenetrable government fortress made its way onto the news, but you know. I find these things out." Someone says his name on his end of the line. A soft, almost exasperated sort of hiss, and Natasha feels her heart skip for a second time. That sounds like Pepper. "Okay, okay. I'm—" He sighs sharply, as if annoyed, but she hears the barely there quiver in his tone when he says, "I'm trying to help."

Her stomach flips. Whether in uneasiness or relief, she's not quite sure. "Are you?"

She doesn't doubt him, necessarily. But – she _knows_. She knows about Barnes and the Starks. She knows the history there, and she hasn't asked Steve just yet, but Sam told her why Tony had come to The Rift. For him to want to help Steve and Barnes, then refuse to even speak about either of them when questioned by reporters?

She could only imagine what must have happened between the three of them, what Tony must have felt when he learned what Steve had been keeping from him.

"Barton and Lang have families here. So does Wilson. And—" He stops himself. Natasha wonders if she imagines the soft swallow that she hears when he takes a breath. "Look. I don't forgive him. I don't know if I ever will." His voice cracks, but she doesn't point it out. Just closes her eyes and exhale slowly. She'd expected this, and no, she doesn't blame him. She doesn't blame Steve, either. It's not that simple and that's where the problem is. "But he—" He curses under his breath, lets out a sharp laugh. "I don't want him to be exiled, either." He pauses. "And you," he adds, voice softer. "I wish I could say I was pissed when you figured out whose side you really wanted to be on, but I wasn't. I wasn't even surprised by it."

"This wasn't about taking sides on the Accords and you know that." She thinks they've _all_ known this for a while, but still. She needs to say the words.

"Yeah," he says, almost in a sigh. Natasha feels her lips tugging at the corners. "So, that's why I'm trying. Just – sit tight for now, alright? I'll figure something out."

It's a promise she knows he shouldn't be making, but she appreciates it, anyway.

... ...

Wanda seems – _better_. She has a little more color in her cheeks and a little more sparkle in her eyes, and her voice is almost as light and lilting and Natasha remembers. She eats everything they put in front of her and doesn't hesitate quite as long when using her powers, and she seems to have adjusted well enough to living in Wakanda. T'challa has come to adore her, and so have his people, and Natasha thinks that it makes sense for her to have adapted so quickly. She hasn't had anywhere to really call a home ever since she and Pietro volunteered for experimentation. Not even when she'd come to America. Natasha imagines it's hard to feel comfortable in a place where people whisper about you when you walk by.

But here, she's free. They're fascinated by her powers rather than wary, and she knows that Wanda enjoys it more than she'd probably ever admit.

It's _nice_. Natasha just wishes she could say the same for the others.

They've adjusted well enough, and she knows that they're incredibly grateful to T'challa and his people for taking them in. No one is trying to drag them away in cuffs here and that's all any of them could really ask for. But of course they miss their families. Of course they miss _home_.

And of course, Steve blames himself. He hasn't said anything about it, but she can see it on his face whenever Clint or Scott are video chatting with their kids, or when Sam is on the phone with one of his siblings. She knows that Steve tells himself that they wouldn't be separated from their families if he hadn't asked for their help. And yeah, maybe they wouldn't. But it was their choice to help him. They knew what they were going up against, what laws they were breaking. There were very, very few ways this could have ended any differently.

"I did that to them," Steve says when they're alone in her room, his fingers flexing around his glass of scotch. It's already after three in the morning, but it's barely eight back in the States, so Clint and Scott are probably on Skype to tuck their kids into bed. Sam usually calls his sister around this time, too, after she's finished dinner.

"Steve," she stars, but he shakes his head.

"I'm the reason they can't be with their families." His hand tightens on the glass, and she swears she hears it straining under his grip. "I'm the reason they can't go home."

"Hey," she says softly, sliding her hand over his. His grip loosens at her touch, letting her pry the glass from him and set it aside. "Look at me."

He does exactly that without hesitance and her heart squeezes in her chest. She hates seeing him like this. "I'm sorry you're not home right now," he whispers.

"Home is a matter of circumstance." She sees the ghosts of a smile tug at his lips, but just briefly. She reaches up and cups his face, strokes her thumb over a scar along the line of his jaw. "Staying together is more important than how we stay together. Do you remember that?" He swallows lightly and nods. "That's still true for me. Is it true for you?"

His eyelashes flutter, his expression cracking in a few places. "It's always been true for me, Nat," he says, voice tight and gravelly.

It should be ridiculous how her heart thrums at this, but she thinks she's held her breath this entire time, waiting for him to say those words to her. She feels her skin tingle, a warmth rushing through her veins. She feels a little like she could cry, which is so, so _stupid_ , because he's clearly upset and she shouldn't be so relieved right now, but she is. She's never felt like anywhere had been home to her before. Not until the Avengers. Not until Steve. And she'd been terrified when she left London on that jet that she would never, ever get that back.

But, as if knowing her thoughts (and maybe he does; maybe he always has) his lips curve into a small but beautiful smile, eyes wet with tears, and everything comes crashing over her. All those little smiles, those late night conversations, those tender touches. All those thoughts that she kept to herself for the sake of keeping their friendship intact.

She slants her lips against his before either of them can even _blink_ , her heart thumping in her chest, and her only coherent thought is that she remembers what he tastes like.

If he's surprised, he doesn't let it on. Just lets out this small, barely there noise from the back of his throat and brings his hand up, tucking his fingers into her hair. He cradles the back of her head and deepens the kiss, pressing his tongue past her lips. She whimpers and slides herself into his lap, straddling his hips, kissing him a little harder. She's shaking and so is he, and when his arm winds around her, pressing her closer, she slides her hands over his chest. She can practically feel how fast his heart is beating. She knows he can feel hers, too.

Her lungs are burning, and she feels dizzy and hazy and _giddy_ when he parts their lips a moment later, his breath coming out in soft pants. She leans her forehead against his, her eyes still closed.

"Steve," she breathes out, and he hums, murmurs, "yeah, me too," as he brushes their lips together again.

... ...

His hands slide over her hips as she's standing in front of the mirror, fastening her earring into place. She feels him brush her hair aside, baring her neck to him, and then his breath is ghosting over her skin as he places a kiss to the column of her throat. Once, twice, three times, and she says his name as her heart stutters in her chest.

They don't have the time for this. Which is a little strange in itself, considering how many weeks they've had entirely to themselves. No obligations, no missions, no casualties. For the first time in as long as she could remember, there hadn't been anyone to pull on her strings, no one's orders to follow. She'd never let her thoughts wander too far in that direction – what it would be like to lead a normal, mundane civilian life – and she told herself it was because it would do nothing but bore her. But she knew it actually terrified her. She didn't know if she could be wired that way, if she even deserved to be. And becoming an Avenger had given her an odd sense of comfort in knowing that maybe she wasn't alone in that thought.

Now she wasn't so sure. She'd had a taste of the quiet life, of _peace_ , and it… It was so tempting to stay tucked into their little corner of the world. To ignore the one little text that would once again throw their life out of balance, if there'd been any to begin with.

 _You're coming home_. It had come from a blocked number, but she knew who it was from, and she knew exactly what it meant.

Steve half-buries his face into the curve of her neck, holding onto her just a little bit tighter. She knows he isn't nervous, exactly, but he's not quite ready to go into that room. She's not sure if she is, either. She'd grown a little too attached to the quiet that had come with hiding, to not having to answer to anyone, not having to defend herself.

But, she thought of Laura and the kids waiting for Clint to get home. Of Scott on Skype with his little girl, and the way Sam lit up whenever he talked with his family. And she thought of Wanda, who had never quite felt comfortable with the way things were, but didn't have an ounce of hesitation about going back as soon as Natasha had shared Tony's message.

Because she wanted to be with them.

"Guess we should head in there soon," Steve says with a sigh, lifting his head to meet her gaze in the reflection. A crooked grin tugs at his lips. "Nervous?"

"No," she answers, quirking an eyebrow at him. His grin widens ever so slightly. "As long as we're together, right?"

His eyes sparkle. "Yeah," he breathes, turning her around to face him. She smiles and stretches up a little, tips her face closer to his. "As long as we're together," he echoes, and then he kisses her, and it tastes like coming home.


End file.
